


What's Life Without a Little Whisk?

by lethallen



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Fluff, M/M, catch me writing a bakery au for every fandom challenge, jon being socially awkward
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:47:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26131387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lethallen/pseuds/lethallen
Summary: Sick of pitying glances in response to his long hours at the Institute, Jon decides to move his work to a nearby bakery. He was not expecting to be charmed by a cherubic baker.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 25
Kudos: 174





	What's Life Without a Little Whisk?

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this at 2 am just to feel something. No beta, take me as I am.

Like many things, Jon’s current predicament was Tim’s fault. Partial credit could be assigned to Sasha, of course, but Jon felt much more comfortable leveling his annoyance entirely at Tim. It could be said that the whole situation was silly, so the fact that Jon took such drastic measures to mitigate it may have seemed like an overreaction. But night after night, Tim would make some jokingly concerned comment about Jon staying late at work, looming in his doorway like the overly-familiar menace he was. Usually, it was followed by Sasha’s admonishment about how he should “leave Jon alone” with such a pitying glance in Jon’s direction that it set his teeth on edge. He thought he could endure it, because, really, he didn’t _care_ what either of them thought about his work habits. Something had to be done around there, and the responsibility of Head Archivist was not lost on him.

However, once this happened a number of times – so often it could certainly be considered _routine_ – he decided that it would be much less… _irritating_ if he had the appearance of a life outside of the Institute. At least it would spare him the misplaced pity.

That was how he had ended up at Carpe Panem. It was a small bakery, but it had fairly big tables and stayed open rather late. More importantly, it was in the opposite direction of his flat, should Tim or Sasha happen to see him making his way out. It gave him the appearance of somewhere to go, rather than giving Tim the opportunity to assume the only _other_ place he had to go was home. (He realized, on some level, that this consideration was quite pathetic, but at least he would be the only one to know about it.)

The first time Jon walked in, he considered the possibility that someone had forgotten to lock the door. The bakery was completely empty, including the service counter. Jon scanned the room, gaze pausing on the little cakes and macarons that lined the inside of the glass case. Though he knew next to nothing about patisserie, he could appreciate how lovely these were, covered in delicate icing and fondant flowers.

Suddenly, he was jarred out of his thoughts by the sound of a crash and what seemed to be a curse in a language Jon didn’t recognize. “Hello?” he called out cautiously, hand fidgeting with the strap of his heavy (and getting heavier by the minute) satchel.

There was total silence for a moment, then the sound of quick footsteps headed in his direction. Moments later, a man stood in front of him, looking every bit like a cherub who’d stumbled into adulthood. He had a sweet, round face, wire-rimmed glasses, and quite a bit of flour covering his nose and cheeks. There seemed to be some in his hair, too, mixing in with the strawberry blonde like snow. His expression was apologetic, but as soon as he got a better look at Jon, it turned mildly horrified. Jon decided not to internalize that.

“Are you closed? If so, you should be more diligent about your sign, as it indicates otherwise.”

The man seemed to redden more, sputtering a bit, before taking a deep breath as if to calm himself. “No! No, we’re definitely open! Sorry, we just don’t usually have—anyone coming in. Not at this time of the evening.” He brushed off the front of his apron – which didn’t do much, considering it was also covered in flour – before offering Jon a nervous smile. Jon felt something in his chest loosen and wasn’t sure what to make of it. “How can I help you?”

“Can I have an espresso, and—” He frowned, looking at the delicate pastries again. The thought of deciding between them exhausted him. “Whatever of these you think is best.”

The man looked mildly daunted but nodded, and Jon paid before going to sit at the table in the corner. Within minutes, he’d made a mess of it, spreading paper and tapes and all the other minutiae of his satchel over the space. When the baker returned, there was nearly no room for the coffee and the piece of cake. Jon managed to shove things aside to make just enough space.

“It’s a milk cake. With pomegranate and pistachio,” the baker said as he set it down. “I, uh. Hope you like it.”

Jon gave a nod, clearly half-listening, his gaze on a stack of paperwork in front of him. The baker stood there for a moment longer, awkwardly. “Well, um, if you need anything else, I’ll just be in the back!” Another pause in which Jon did nothing to acknowledge him, and then he was turning and walking away. That was when Jon’s eyes lifted to follow the movement.

Despite Tim’s apparent belief his boss was an automaton, Jon was perfectly capable of knowing when people were pleasant to look at. This baker, for instance, was _very_ pleasant to look at. His face, the gentleness of it, the warmth, it turned something of a switch on inside of Jon. Made him remember that, oh, yes, there were people out there, normal people, and some of them looked as though they were pulled straight from a Renaissance painting. It was… most inconvenient.

He lifted his fork and took a bite of the cake. It was the best he’d ever had.

* * *

Things went on quite similarly for the next few weeks. Jon would come in, order an espresso and whatever the baker wanted to give him, and he worked until five minutes before closing, at which point he would leave. The baker had begun to predict him now, quite understandably, and Jon no longer had to announce his presence; the man was usually at the counter, waiting for him. He always looked quite pleased to see Jon, much to the latter’s surprise. He was hardly charming, as well as the kind of customer most other businesses seemed to hate, the kind that ordered once and stayed until minutes before closing. But every evening, there the baker was, smiling warmly and asking, “Espresso and something sweet?”

While Jon may not have been charming, the other man certainly was. He was so charming, in fact, that Jon felt vaguely… intimidated. It wasn’t the usual sort of charm, of course, the kind someone like Tim possessed. It was amiable, kind, earnest. Jon had no idea what to do in the face of that kind of pleasantness. He wasn’t used to it. So he may have been a bit… brusque. Most of the time. But he always tipped quite well, said his pleases and thank yous a little more often and a little kindlier than he might’ve otherwise. And he was always rewarded by the baker’s sheepish smile, which only intimidated him all the more.

Beyond the initial contact required, the baker generally stayed out of Jon’s way, allowing him to work in peace. One day, however, he lingered longer than usual.

“What does the M stand for?”

“Pardon?” Jon looked up from his work to see the baker, cheeks flushed a little pink. They were _usually_ flushed a little pink. It only added to his aura of _soft, warm, sweet_ that made that same bit of tightness in Jon’s chest loosen every time he saw him.

The baker gestured to Jon’s satchel. “Your bag. It’s monogrammed.”

Jon shifted his gaze to his bag, where it was, indeed, monogrammed with the initials M.D.S. “No idea. I got it at Oxfam.”

“Oh.” He looked up to see that the baker’s face had fallen a bit, though he couldn’t imagine why. After a moment of silence, Jon turned his gaze back to his work. It was a few more beats before the footsteps began retreating as normal.

About thirty minutes went by before Jon realized that it was very possible, if not entirely probable, that the baker had been after his name. He always paid in cash, after all, and there would be no other way for the baker to know it. It also occurred to him then that he didn’t know _his_ name, either, always referring to him as the baker in his head. It just suited him. Of course, now he was wondering what the baker thought of him as. Perhaps _the prat_ or _the nuisance_ or _the man with pathetically little to do other than work in an empty patisserie every day_.

Jon considered introducing himself, but by then, too much time had gone by. The thought of calling him back now, just to tell him his name, made him cringe with preemptive awkwardness. Anyway, it was presumptuous. Even if he couldn’t exactly _think_ of a reason the baker would have asked about the monogram other than wanting his name, there surely was one.

He slipped out ten minutes earlier than usual without saying goodbye.

* * *

Things went back to more of the same. The baker seemed to take their brief deviation to be a general dismissal of all conversation, which… was probably for the best. Jon had difficulty with interactions such as these, ones in which he desperately wanted to be sociable and friendly but didn’t know how. He was good at being brutally honest, at being assertive when he was displeased, but once things got past the “stern” or “professional” portion of human interaction, he felt lost. And the baker was so _soft_. Jon, who felt he was all and only sharp edges, was mildly terrified to ruin it.

It didn’t matter. Nothing was going to come of their interactions, anyway. He would enjoy the baker’s sweet smiles, and the moments when they were exchanging money and their hands brushed. That was it.

(Even if those brushes of hands made Jon feel more in half a second than he had in a very long time. Christ, he was pathetic.)

So on it went. He was nearing the two-month mark when anything of note happened. It was about six o’clock, and he was busy pretending to read a statement (but actually listening to the baker hum quietly from the kitchen) when, much to his surprise, the door to the bakery flung open. This was quite jarring, considering people rarely ever came in when he was there. Even more jarring was the “ _Boss_!” that immediately followed with a cool gust of wind, as if announcing Death themselves. Jon hesitated for a moment before lifting his head to see Tim in the doorway, grinning like the absolute idiot that he was. A long-suffering sigh escaped him before he could stop it.

“I was just passing by on my way to the pub and I happened to see you in here! What a coincidence!”

Jon suspected it wasn’t as much of a coincidence as Tim was letting on, but he didn’t have much time to think about it before the baker was coming up from the back. His expression was intrigued and a little concerned, but his voice was cheerful enough when he said, “Hi there! Can I help you?”

“He’s not staying,” Jon said quickly, but Tim plopped down in the chair across from him in a direct contradiction.

“I’d love a pain au chocolat if you’ve got one.”

The baker nodded and smiled at Tim, which made Jon heinously, embarrassingly jealous. He was not the jealous type, not to his knowledge (he had a very limited pool from which to pull), but after so many evenings – over a month’s worth now – of just him and the baker alone, to see him smiling at Tim was… grating. Made even worse when Tim murmured across the table, “Well he’s quite cute, isn’t he?”

Jon tried to school his face into a neutral expression but evidently failed if Tim’s smug grin was anything to go by. “Oh, _I see_. You’re not just coming here for the macarons, hmmm?”

Though he could feel his face heat up, Jon’s voice was indignant when he replied, “I don’t know what you’re referring to.”

Tim gave him a disbelieving look, but the baker was making his way over with Tim’s pain au chocolat, so he, blessedly, didn’t respond. When the pastry was set in front of him, Tim made an over-the-top approving noise. “This smells incredible. Say, who do I have to thank for improving my night with such a delicacy?”

The baker blushed, and Jon fought the urge to roll his eyes. “Ah, my name’s Martin. I do all the baking.”

“Martin, it’s a pleasure. I’m so happy I was able to drop by; Jon here hasn’t been able to stop talking about how wonderful this place is.”

“He hasn’t?” The baker – _Martin_ , Jon told himself, quite fond of the sound of it in his head – brightened and looked over at Jon, his smile turning… what was it? Pleased, perhaps? Jon wondered if he was turning over the newly discovered name in his head, too. Wondered if he liked it.

Tim nodded emphatically. “Oh, yes. Rants and raves about the great coffee, food, and excellent company.”

“Tim,” Jon said, voice low in warning, but it was hard to keep a stern face when he glanced over to see Martin smiling at his shoes, face pink. God, he was adorable. 

That was when Tim dug his wallet out of his pocket and set five quid on the table before standing, picking up his pain au chocolat. “Well, boss, it was nice to see you. And Martin, it was an absolute pleasure.” He took a big bite out of the pastry and groaned. “Perfect, mate. Cheers.” He backed out of the bakery, giving Jon a toothy grin and a thumbs up. Jon, not for the first time, momentarily considered homicide.

“I’m sorry about him. He’s…” Normal? Charming? In possession of the traits Jon wished he had in this situation? “Well. I apologize.”

Martin shrugged, still smiling. He hadn’t stopped since Tim came in. “No need. He seemed lovely, actually.”

Jon let out a huff at that but offered no more to the conversation. There was a pause, and he thought Martin might walk away. The action certainly seemed to go with the pattern they’d set up. But he didn’t, instead saying, a little shyly, “So. You’ve been talking about the bakery?”

The was a long moment where Jon considered going along with Tim’s lie, but he didn’t particularly like the dishonesty. It felt difficult to lie to such an earnest face. “Not really,” he admitted, finally. “He was just saying that because… Well. I think it was his way of helping. He thought I might be interested in you.”

At that, Martin’s face fell a bit, leaving Jon to parse out what exactly that meant. Was he frowning at the thought Jon might be interested in him? Or the thought Jon might not be?

Martin let out a forced-sounding laugh. “Right. Yes. That would be… silly.” Jon thought for a moment that Martin would leave it at that, but all of a sudden, words were tumbling out of him so quickly that Jon struggled to keep up. “I mean, that _would_ really be a silly thing to think, wouldn’t it? A person has no real reason to believe such a thing. It doesn’t matter that you smile at me sometimes and that you tip me far too much, and you say please and thank you more than is probably appropriate. I mean, you come here every day we’re open and barely talk to me. You’re so focused on your work that you barely _look_ at me, really. Silly.”

By the end of his rant, Martin seemed mortified at himself. He looked to be preparing to turn and run to the back, no doubt with an arsenal of rushed apologies slipping out of him. Perhaps that was why Jon found himself blurting, almost entirely against his better judgment. “I _do_ look at you.” Because he did, often. Embarrassingly often. Whenever Martin wasn’t paying attention, really. Martin stared at him, surprised, and Jon couldn’t help adding (rather shyly, though he’d never admit it), “I… quite, ah, like it. Looking at you, I mean. That is to say, you’re nice to look at.”

Martin blinked owlishly at him a couple of times (giving Jon a very good view of his hazel eyes, which, if anything, only made him more distraught) before a shy, surprised grin lit up his face. “You think so?”

“I do.” He shuffled his papers around with no goal other than to have something to do with his hands. “I… apologize if I’ve been standoffish. I’m not sure how to behave in this situation, considering I don’t often find myself, ah, interested. In someone.”

“Interested?” Martin sounded surprised, but Jon had newly dedicated himself to staring at the table and remembering that statement in which a man claimed to have been swallowed by the ground. He thought that didn’t sound too awful at the moment.

Finally, Martin spoke up once more, saving him. “Well, I think you’re doing fine. Now, at least.” Jon looked up, startled by the teasing tone of Martin’s voice, and was rewarded with the sight of his playful expression. Frankly, Jon was beginning to grow concerned that he had been a dormant romantic this entire time; his reactions to Martin were romance cliché, but his traitorous heart pounded frantically anyway.

“Oh. Well. Good.” More shuffling of the papers, uncomfortable but… _determined._ He struggled to corral his words, but Martin didn’t rush him. Soon he was able to get out, “Would you like to, ah, perhaps see each other outside of here? Go somewhere else to have coffee?”

Martin was smiling now, so warm he was practically alight. “Yeah. I’d… I’d like that quite a lot. But I should say, I prefer tea.”

Jon nodded, unable to wrestle back a smile (and not particularly wanting to). “Tea it is.”


End file.
